


The Margin of Error

by manic_intent



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Rooftop Shenanigans, That fic which was meant to be pwp but ended up discussing zen gardens what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7166687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You should not be wearing shoes here.” </p><p>Jack glanced over his shoulder, his grip tightening reflexively on his pulse rifle. The master of the house watched him from the doorway to the large, empty room with the woven mats, dressed unassumingly in a black robe, tied loosely over his hips. Pointedly, Jack stared at Hanzo Shimada’s own feet, still clad as they were in his tight-fitting, elaborate metal greaves, before the truth dawned awkwardly on him. Hanzo’s ankles were a little <i>too</i> slim, the arch of his knees a little too angular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Margin of Error

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【Overwatch/守望先锋】【藏76】 The Margin of Error 犯错的收获 By manic_intent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11240262) by [batcat229](https://archiveofourown.org/users/batcat229/pseuds/batcat229)



> Written for @nandeeff on twitter, who said she wished there were more 76hanzo fics.
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : I don’t play Overwatch. It’s ridiculous how expensive the game is in Australia (thx weak Kangaroo dollar + games tax) for a game with no campaign… :( I’m not great at shooters either, and I don’t really like playing pure pvp games. So this story was written after watching the short films + a couple of hours’ worth of reading the wiki and the Blizzard comics. WTF, there’s a shit ton of lore for a game that has no campaign.
> 
> For those people who have no idea what this fic is about or have only kinda heard about Overwatch, the cinematic short films that Blizzard released are awesome, check them out! :) But in particular:  
> Hanzo's short film, Dragons: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJ09xdxzIJQ  
> Soldier: 76 (Jack Morrison's) short film, Hero: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPRRupAM4DI

“You should not be wearing shoes here.” 

Jack glanced over his shoulder, his grip tightening reflexively on his pulse rifle. The master of the house watched him from the doorway to the large, empty room with the woven mats, dressed unassumingly in a black robe, tied loosely over his hips. Pointedly, Jack stared at Hanzo Shimada’s own feet, still clad as they were in his tight-fitting, elaborate metal greaves, before the truth dawned awkwardly on him. Hanzo’s ankles were a little _too_ slim, the arch of his knees a little too angular. 

“Sorry,” Jack offered gruffly. He strode quickly out of the room to the walkway that bordered its flank, which opened out to a neat lake of white pebbles and random rafts of rock. When Jack stepped out onto the pebbles, Hanzo let out another sigh. 

“You are not meant to walk there either. No matter. The attendants will rake the _karesansui_ again in the morning.” 

“Seriously?” Behind his visor, Jack frowned, though he hastily got back up on the walkway. The gravel where he had stood had been displaced into large footprints. 

Oops.

Thankfully, Hanzo seemed amused rather than offended. He crossed the empty room to the walkway on silent feet, and though he was at least a full head shorter than Jack, as always, something about Hanzo spoke always of effortless power. Grace. The others might find the older Shimada brother cold and aloof. Jack did not. There was something of a hunting bird in Hanzo, all efficient economy, nothing left to waste. Small wonder Jack had not even noticed that Hanzo’s legs were prosthetics until now: nothing about the weapon that was Hanzo Shimada had ever seemed remotely imperfect.

“It is a ‘zen garden’.” Hanzo grimaced briefly in distaste. Clearly he thought little of popular terms. “There is an art to its creation… _ishi wo tateru koto_. The emphasis is on harmony, on everything having a place, fitting together as a whole.” 

Jack stared at the rocks for a moment, then he pulled off his visor and mask for a better look in natural vision. Nope. It still looked like a yard of white rocks with bits of large black ones in random shapes scattered in random places. In a way, it was even kinda… _messy_. 

Hell, Zeigler was right. Jack had no poetry in his soul. Still, since the people of Hanamura had agreed to host a new Overwatch base solely because of the Shimada brothers, Jack supposed that he should make some sort of effort to be polite. 

“I like the rock in the corner,” Jack said vaguely. “The uh, one that looks like a thumb, with the white spots.” 

Hanzo smirked. “You _gaijin_. The emphasis is on _harmony_ in composition. There are no individual centerpieces. Rather, beauty comes in its balance, in following the _Sakuteiki_.”

“Maybe I should just shut up,” Jack muttered, resigned to being hopelessly ignorant. Given a weapon, a troop to command or strategy to devise, and Jack would’ve been in his element. Anything else and it was 50/50 that he’d just make a damned fool of himself. 

Jack had grudgingly agreed to stay and help out until the Hanamura base got going, since he’d been around the block and apparently there were still residual yakuza or whatever hanging around, but on hindsight, Winston probably should’ve sent someone else. Jack’s already mediocre social skills were clearly rustier than he’d thought. 

“Not at all. You are a guest. And perhaps Hanamura may someday be your home.” 

“Winston hasn’t said anythin’ about resource allocation.“ 

“It seems logical. The new Overwatch cannot protect the whole of the world by concentrating itself within Gibraltar.” 

“I’m not part of Overwatch.” _Not any longer_. “Just helpin’ out since it’s stretched thin. For now.” 

“Nor am I,” Hanzo drawled. “But my brother is insistent and, as you say, it is stretched thin. For now. Still. I know your face, _Commander_. Hanamura has… experience, in hiding those who do not wish to be found by the world.” 

Home. Jack did not remember the last time he had thought of any place as _home_. Not even when he had joined Overwatch, decades ago, when he had been younger, idealistic, naive. Indiana was an even more distant memory: he did not know if his parents lived or died. It had been safer that way. Rootless, roofless and then nameless, life had seemed easier when pared all the way down. Jack stared at the garden, his jaw set, trying to see the beauty in it, see its harmony. It was hopeless. Emptied of everything but purpose, maybe the part of Jack that could’ve appreciated something like this had long been cored away. 

“The stone that you liked,” Hanzo said abruptly, making Jack flinch. “It is _suteishi_. A nameless rock, placed at random to give the garden spontaneity. It makes the _karesansui_ more beautiful.” Hanzo patted Jack’s arm, just above the elbow. “It belongs, despite being an outsider.” 

Was Hanzo trying to…? “And does it bring trouble behind it?” Jack asked dryly. 

“A garden can take some troubles. In the morning, after all, it can be raked again.” Hanzo’s touch lingered, for a moment too long to be polite, then he smiled without warmth and turned away.

#

On warm nights, the dragons sat uneasily under his skin. Hanzo sat on the roof of the dojo, out of sight of the construction efforts in the compound. Winston had arranged for some “standard gear” to be “set up”, commandeering an entire quadrant of the Shimada grounds for his equipment, even razing a pagoda that he had played in with his brother when they were children. Hanzo had been indifferent. Sentiment was for a younger time. Besides, without Overwatch, Hanzo would never have had the means nor the interest in retaking control of Hanamura.

A faint scrape on the tiles made Hanzo reach instinctively for his bow. It was Morrison, climbing up onto the roof, straightening precariously once he was up and rubbing his back, teasing away a knot. The moon and the security lights in the garden lit his silver hair in stark relief against his scarred face. The mask was nowhere to be seen.

“You should not be climbing around on rooftops at your age,” Hanzo said mildly, and kept his expression blank as Morrison scowled. 

“Don’t get smart with me, son.” Morrison had grown reluctantly less reserved over the week. “All you kids need to learn some goddamned respect.” He smirked as he settled down heavily beside Hanzo. Someone had coaxed Morrison into a yukata, but the effect was ruined by his heavy boots and the pulse rifle, in Hanzo’s opinion. 

“You are not meant to wear boots with a yukata,” Hanzo told him. 

“Yeah, well, I’d also rather not trip over myself if we happen to get into a fight,” Morrison said sourly. “Your serving staff stole my clothes.” 

“They were due to be washed.” 

“You’re sayin’ that I used to stink?” Morrison chuckled. “That look on your face. Kinda reminds me of the first night, when I told you I don’t eat no raw fish.” 

“Yes, I remember that you asked for ‘steak and chips’.” 

Morrison shrugged. “You’re the one who said I could make requests. I wasn’t gonna be no trouble otherwise.” 

American English was such an imprecise language. About to respond, Hanzo tensed instead, as dragon coils twisted, sparking static over his skin, an arch of scales surfacing briefly through his arm like a whale breaching. He rubbed his arm restlessly, but he felt the dragon twisting uneasily, rattling his bones, numbing his arm to the wrist. One lay quiet, but the other... It was going to be a bad night. 

“Looks like it hurts,” Morrison said quietly.

“It’s a gift,” Hanzo retorted defensively.

“Hey, hey. I’ve seen what it can do. Christ.” Morrison shook his head. “Right when you think you’ve done and gone seen everything, the world can still surprise you. Fucking _dragons_. Magic.” There was a catch to his voice, something like grudging wonder in his eyes. 

“You can never ‘see everything’ of this world. How can you, with just one lifetime?” Hanzo dared to shift a little closer, and when Morrison merely watched him, he reached over, patting Morrison on the thigh with deliberate promise. “You are only human.” 

“And what about you?” Morrison asked, as the dragon wound itself down Hanzo’s bicep, to his elbow, the spikes of its back pressing upwards like serrated teeth through his skin. “You have goddamned _dragons_ under your skin.” 

“I am human enough.” Hanzo set a palm against Morrison’s shoulder, pushing him down against the cold tiles, straddling his belly. The dragon twisted against his wrist, strangely eager, its tail flicking through and _past_ his palm. Under him, Morrison jerked like a live wire. 

“Shit!” 

“She likes you.” Hanzo told him, leaning up to press his lips to the first scar on Morrison’s face, the gash that led up to his forehead. 

“How… how’d you know?”

“If she didn’t, she would have burned you.” The dragon was hungry. Yoked to her moods, Hanzo bared his teeth, and Morrison groaned as he twisted up for a kiss, their noses bumping until they managed with gentle urgency. Morrison tugged Hanzo’s kimono off his other shoulder, stroking rough palms uncertainly up his arms, and froze again as the dragon looped around his palms, _through_ his wrist, restless. She had tasted Morrison’s worth and had _approved_. Under him, Morrison gasped. 

“She likes you,” Hanzo repeated, low and throaty now as he got a hand into Morrison’s yukata and down his boxers. Morrison’s hips jerked, soft as he was in Hanzo’s palm, and he made a tiny, strangled sound, forced out through gritted teeth. Hanzo was no stranger to pleasure or its uses. The Shimada clan, like many yakuza organisations, had controlled networks of escorts and brothels. Usually, Hanzo was indifferent to beautiful men, beautiful women. 

_Powerful_ men, though, dangerous men, that was something else. Hanzo was hard, pressed against Morrison’s hip, and he bit down as Morrison tugged him up for a kiss, basted fresh blood between them both. “Fuck,” Morrison hissed, hoarse with lust. “You’re really somethin’.” 

“Come on, old man,” Hanzo drawled. He squeezed down, probably hard enough to hurt, but Morrison twisted in his grip and groaned, bucking. The dragon was arching away from his skin, roiling through the both of them, linking them together with restless serpentine loops. Hanzo breathed in the smell of rain, the taste of the storm. He bared his teeth, buried hunger in the tight furl of Morrison’s muscular shoulders, chuckled as he felt shaky fingers fumble at his belt and pants. 

“Shit,” Morrison hissed, “You’re going to _kill_ me, the two of you-“ he bit his words off into a whine, his scars marked clearly over his skin under blue fire. 

They rut together, Morrison’s spit-wet palm around them both, Hanzo’s teeth set close to his neck, his hands clawed into their clothes. The dragon growled, soundless, but they felt her pleasure as it shook through them, jarring their teeth. Morrison jerked, with a torn-off sob, and kicking heels scraped a tile free. When it smashed down below, Hanzo bit down, and licked blood into the roof of his mouth. Morrison bit out a whimper, and dug the blunt nails of his free hand down Hanzo’s back, hard enough to sting. 

“C’mon,” Morrison was gasping. “ _Hanzo_.” The dragon purred, curling possessively down their wrists. She dug her claws through Hanzo’s palms, rasped her tusks over Morrison’s marked ribs, fascinated by old scars. Later, as he soiled Morrison’s fist, Hanzo licked a slow stripe up the badly healed gash across Morrison’s face, chasing a buried memory of pain. 

The dragon was quiet by the time they cleaned up and fixed their clothes and made it to Hanzo’s bedroom. Morrison was sheepishly apologetic as he forgot about his shoes - yet again - and stiffly nervous as Hanzo pulled him down over the futon. “Stop thinking so hard,” Hanzo told him, as they lay together. “Sometimes life is simple.” 

Morrison watched as Hanzo efficiently removed one prosthetic leg, then the other, an arm slung low over Hanzo’s belly. No revulsion, no pity. Good. The dragons always chose well, and this one had a soft spot for stubborn old warriors. 

“What happened there, if you don’t mind me askin'?” 

“I made a series of stupid decisions,” Hanzo said, as he pulled up the covers. “But life is rich with second chances, if you’re only willing to look.” 

He didn’t know if that might have convinced Morrison to stay, to give the new Overwatch a chance, just as Hanzo was. In the dark, Morrison’s scarred face was inscrutable. But he pulled Hanzo carefully close, and tucked his chin over Hanzo’s shoulder, warm and immovable. Tomorrow, Hanzo knew, Jack Morrison would still be here.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent 
> 
> Actually my fav ship is probably still Jesse x Hanzo, but I've been seriously influenced by Korean fandom I think XD;;  
> \--  
> Also @nandeeff made awesome 76hanzo art! Here: https://twitter.com/nandeeff/status/741665934717247489/photo/1


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